


like sleep, like scything

by mardisoir



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Ghosts, Not A Fix-It
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-27 19:08:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12588624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardisoir/pseuds/mardisoir
Summary: A quartette of ruffians, Claquesous, Gueulemer, Babet, and Montparnasse, governed the third lower floor of Paris, from 1830 to 1835.





	like sleep, like scything

_**October 1832**_  
  
“The room belonged to a student acquaintance of mine,” Fauntleroy lead the way up a narrow, creaking staircase. “I’ve been staying here since June, since-” he paused at the door, pulling a key from his pockets. “Well. Since June.”  
  
Montparnasse recalled the slick of gore on cobblestone, the crumpled shape of broken bodies, Gavroche’s youthful face turned towards the heavens. He had watched from the edge of the crowd as the fallen were lain out, Éponine’s long hair trailing in pools of blood, Claquesous’ eyes dull with death staring up at him from an unfamiliar face.  
  
“He had paid for the year in advance,” Fauntleroy’s soft voice broke into his morbid reverie. “And kindly offered me the use of his lodgings if he didn’t come back.”  
  
The rooms were small but well appointed. Montparnasse, who had been expecting an artist’s garrett, was pleasantly surprised. Fauntleroy’s student must have been wealthy in life, if not in luck.   
  
In the sitting room there was a large window hung with moth-eaten velvet drapes, fronted with shutters and a collection of overgrown potted plants. A desk was set before it, piled high with books and pamphlets and papers covered with scrawling elegant script.   
  
Another shelf of books filled the space above a small chaise, draped with brightly coloured silks and topped with overstuffed cushions.  
  
Through a doorway was the bedroom, he glimpsed the edge of a wooden bed frame and a stand with a porcelain pitcher and basin. There was even a penderie, the door cracked open to reveal the promise of clothing within.   
  
The rooms were untouched, rumpled linens and a few burnt out candles the only sign that Fauntleroy had been there at all.  
  
“Why are you leaving them now?” the lodgings were inordinately luxurious for two men of their status, few things would tempt them away from such comforts.  
  
Fauntleroy’s cheeks coloured prettily, “I have found somewhere else to pass my nights.”  
  
A warmer bed would be more accurate, Montparnasse suspected, but he wouldn’t begrudge his friend that comfort.  
  
“And the landlady hasn’t realised that you are not the young man she rented the rooms to?”  
  
“She’s at least eighty years old and very nearly blind,” Fauntleroy toed the edge of a faded but expensive looking Persian rug. “I just nod hello when we pass and never speak, she’s not noticed yet.”

Montparnasse was taller and darker than Fauntleroy, but he knew how to move unseen if needs be, and the risk was worth the rewards in this case.  
  
“Will you water the plants?” Fauntleroy asked as he was leaving, hovering in the doorway looking almost distressed. “I’ve done my best to keep them alive, but I don’t know anything about tending flowers.”  
  
Montparnasse laughed, “Bouquetière, you make a liar of yourself.”  
  
Fauntleroy smiled faintly, looking around the room one last time. “Take care, Montparnasse.”

And then he was alone.

Montparnasse found it suited him to have formal lodgings. It was a glorious novelty to sleep every night on a bed that he did not have to share, under a roof that did not leak, with the knife beneath his pillow serving only as a comfort rather than a necessity.   
  
He told no one where he was living now, and no one asked. Babet was distant and suspicious since Claquesous’ death, and Gueulemer was quick to anger and even quicker to drink. Montparnasse still met them at night, still stalked the streets of Paris at their side, but it didn’t feel the same - they no longer felt untouchable.

Montparnasse had stripped the rooms of most of the valuables left behind and sold them. He’d hoped to keep some of the clothes, but the wardrobe revealed that not only was the late resident lacking in general good sense, they were also lacking entirely in fashion sense.   
  
The plants on the windowsill flourished in the late autumn sunshine. Montparnasse watered them each morning, despite feeling somewhat absurd for doing so. He enjoyed their bright colours, although they often made him think of the sadness in Fauntleroy’s face as he’d said goodbye.  
  
Montparnasse did not spare much thought for the student who had once lived there, besides appreciating the riches they’d accumulated that were now his to enjoy. He barely allowed himself to think of those he’d called friends that had died on the barricades, he wouldn’t lose sleep over some unknown would-be-revolutionary.

That was what he had told himself, anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> For the Jehanparnasse Week prompt "Haunted". Title from Anne Carson's Ghost Q & A.


End file.
